


This time of the year

by blackcherry16



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Family, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Other, SPNAdventCalendar2020, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:01:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcherry16/pseuds/blackcherry16
Summary: Series of short prompts written for the #SPNAdventCalendar2020 challenge. There is fluff/drama/humour/hurt/comfort thrown in the mix. All stories are set around Christmas time throughout the years.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Advent Calendar

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: none, it's gen  
> Wordcount: about 1K  
> Setting: Season 5  
> Disclaimer: Just burrowing these kick ass characters  
> Shoutout: A special thank you to emilyshurley for being my lovely and great beta.

"Here, for you two crazy kids."

Dean chuckles as he dramatically brings out two, enormous paper boards from behind his back.

"One for creepy-ass Krampus over here," he says, handing Sam the small gift as he folds himself into the driver's seat, then reaching into the back to deliver it first hand to their battered angelic passenger himself. "And one for grumpy Rudolf in the back."

Cas runs his fingers along the sides of the paperboard, suspiciously eyeing the golden wings plastered on the cover. The chubby cartoon drawing is wearing a red Christmas hat with a matching star-sprinkled scarf.

"This clothing is redundant," Castiel rasps. "Angels don't feel cold."

Dean looks back at him, brows raised, a smile tugging at his face. "Yeah, just-just ignore that for a minute, will ya?"

Sam just stares in utter disbelief at the advent calendar in his hand and adds a hysterical "Dean, we don't have time for this." They clearly have a Michael and Lucifer situation to handle like two days ago.

Dean, on the other hand, is utterly unfazed, reaching for his own he had hastily stored on the hood of the Impala. Shutting the door in an enormous heap, bringing an icy breeze with him.

"Relax, Sam. We are in the middle of stopping the Apocalypse," Dean utters and Sam wants to shout _Exactly!_ but his brother is faster. He comes up with a hand towards Sam before he even has a chance to open his mouth. "I think we can treat ourselves with something nice for a change."

They stare at each other for a moment, a hint of amusement breaking through the otherwise troubled and tired, green eyes.

And Sam knows that Dean really means it for now.

"Great," Sam remarks dryly, waggling the box slightly and staring down at a giant white moose, which is peering at him with huge, pleading eyes. The gigantic red nose is occupying half of the front and there are artsy Christmas lights and ornaments tangled in its antlers. There might be glitter, too.

"Besides, they were fifty percent off," his brother cheers, apparently very pleased with himself. "I call that a win-win."

Dean settles himself more comfortably against the familiar leather and leans his newest achievement carefully against the steering wheel, lips smacking together at his new task at hand.

"There are numbered doors, twenty-four in total," Dean states gleefully, adjusting the rearview mirror, eying the angel in the back. When he hears a ripping sound of cardboard, Dean bolts and eagerly smacks his friend's hands away.

"Jesus, Cas. Hold on."

Eventually, Dean glues his back to the upholstery one more time, readjusting his calendar on his lap.

"So, there are twenty-four doors, alright?

And Sam really, really wants to have only a quarter of that bouncy energy that ratters through Dean right now. They are on the heels of the fourth horseman, and there is a very human Cas riding shotgun with them, cut off from Heaven's power.

"Yes," a deep and gravelly voice joins in.

"Each number stays for the date until Christmas," Dean continues, tapping on the paperboard.

"Yes."

Dean claps his hands together, this time tilting his head towards his friend. "So, on each day you get to open one door and you get rewarded with something. It's chocolate in our case."

The voices in the car fade away, gradually, becoming a static buzz in the background. The Latin word _adventus_ is spinning in Sam's head and all he can think about is the arrival of Lucifer as the painted antlers on the carton merge into huge, twisted horns.

And suddenly he is back in the dark and not-so-lonely motel room, repeating _no no no_ in his head like a mantra as the devil is standing in front of him, true and earnest. Confessing that he is the one and only true vessel. But Lucifer needs his consent and apparently one way or another he _will_ say yes, according to him at least. But he is never ever going to let that happen.

There is a gentle nudge, a loud "Sammy, you in or what?" and then light cuts through dull, brooding darkness.

Sam blinks, stares down at the silly giant Christmas moose with google-eyes.

"First one who finds the first column gets free dinner tonight," Dean challenges.

Sam watches as his brother's eyes roam across the colorful Christmas tree painting, his twitching fingers hovering close, his brows furrowed in concentration. Dean lets out and triumphant _Ha!_ and pokes his fingers right through the treetop, snatching the treat from the broken cardboard.

Meanwhile, in the back, Cas is on opening the fifth.

Dean then opens the rest of the seven boxes, cause, well they are already on the seventh of December, popping the chocolate in his mouth like he hasn't eaten the double-gravy-cheeseburger with extra bacon with a neat pile of french fries and a pie two hours ago.

Sam just scoffs, a smile tugging at his lips, and shakes his head. The season of advent is marked with hope and joy, so yeah, Dean might be right. They are all alive and in one piece, for now, the three of them could use a distraction for once.

Squinting his eyes, he is searching for the "1", which is tucked away in one of the pink garnish right next to the elk's ear. He pops the seal and takes out the reward, cradling it in between his fingers. Sam doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

It's a milk chocolate angel with a halo and a harp tugged under its wings.


	2. Motel rooms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: none, it's gen
> 
> Wordcount: about 1K
> 
> Setting: Season 11 or just really somewhere after they discovered the bunker
> 
> Disclaimer: Just burrowing these amazing characters
> 
> Shoutout: A special thank you to slitherkins for being my kick-ass beta and providing me with valuable input.

_**Prompt: Motel rooms + christmas lights** _

"Wow," Dean mutters, tone baffled.

" _Wow_ ," he repeats, just to emphasise his sheer shock as he flicks on the light of the freshly rented motel room. His brows practically disappear into his hairline. He flicks the light off, then on again, maybe hoping for a magical change in the appearance of the room.

"This must be the crappiest motel room we have ever stayed in," Dean announces, doing a full-face frown as he enters their accomodation and Sam trails behind. "They really went overboard for us, didn't they?" Dean says sarcastically.

It's the smell that really hits Sam first. Old, musty mildew hanging heavy in the air with the stagnant stench of mothballs. Underneath that, the acid smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the wall.

It probably seemed quite modern back in 1960. Two narrow beds, a couple of wooden chairs and a matching cupboard with a very old TV on top. The wallpaper has a beige, sepia tint around the edges. Long scuff marks graze the wall from taking the brunt of luggage and furniture over the years. It's the high saturation mustard colored carpet with bleach splotches that sets Sam off.

"Are you sure we can't sleep in the car?" Dean's eyes dart around the room.

"Dean, it's minus ten degrees outside. There is no way we can sleep in the car unless you want to freeze to death," Sam mutters, even though he wishes they could. He walks past his sibling to crank up the heat.

" _Aw_ , man," Dean says bleakly, hands running through his hair. "First Baby getting all busted up and then _this_. I'm sure missing the bunker."

"It's just for one night," Sam offers empathically, though his rope of patience is alarmingly reaching the breaking point. The long hours in the car, the lack of sleep and lack of food are getting to him, too, now. Dean's bitching isn't exactly helping. There is nothing they could do about the room, after all.

Dean shoots him a glare before he storms off into the tiny bathroom at the far corner of the room, tugging at the pull cord in annoyance. The bulb illuminating the dull brown titles only dimly.

From the distance, Sam can hear the water running, the toilet seat being janked open and closed again. A curse, then more water running. There is some rustling of fabric, followed by a loud _smack,_ and he is pretty sure Dean nearly janked the shower curtain off its hangers.

"I am definitely _not_ going to get naked in here," the muffled cry echoes from opposite the room.

Sam closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath.

For the most part, it was _okayish_. Yes, they'd had better. But they'd also had worse. Like the one in Illinois where they had to share a bathroom with six other people, or the one in Utah where the old paste began to fail and the wallpaper rolled in on itself like a snail on crack, revealing pitch black spots on the bare ceiling. They left soon after Dean started coughing two hours in. Black mold is nothing to mess around with.

Dean is just being cranky today, though. And overdramatic. Sam only wants for them to get some rest, wants to lose the ache that had settled into his bones. Digging up that grave was heavy work, the ground was nearly frozen solid. They were dressed in layers for warmth, but there is only so much you can do about the cold. He flexes his fingers as the pins-and-needles sensation sets in and his stiff fingers begin to hurt.

Dean interrupts his thoughts as he aggravatedly brushes past him, heading for the bed in the corner with impossibly long strides, dropping the pillows on the nightstand in a huff. Sam wishes his brother had thrown the two pillows in his direction instead, so he could smack him with them. Twice.

"Dean, _what_ are you doing?"

His brother rips down the bed cover then, revealing an old mattress with deep dark stains and a variety of different colored smudges. And okay, Sam wishes he could unsee that.

"Looking for bedbugs," Dean mutters under his breath. "I hate those little fuckers."

Sam ignores him, resting his duffel on the TV stand. The front of the mattress must have been safe, though, because all of the sudden, he could hear the faint brush of sheets and a heavy, oh-so-dramatic sigh.

There is silence for a moment, nothing but the rusty-pipe hum of the heater.

"You owe me some dinner," Dean blurts out loudly. "For putting up with this craphole."

Sam nearly snorts at that because he sure as hell had no influence on the fact that the sudden blizzard forced a change in their plans and this was the only motel in a fifty mile radius. Or the fact that some dude's car slid across the icy road while trying to get out of the parking lot, bumping into Dean's beloved Baby by accident. Sam snatches his jacket back on, pulling the zipper high up. There was a pizza place down the road.

Sam opens his mouth to reply but then slams it shut, going for the room keys and his wallet instead, heading out without so much as a word.

* * *

Sam stomps the snow off his boots, crystals of ice clinging to his eyelashes as he fumbles for the knob. The pizza boxes and the six-pack nearly go flying as the door suddenly swings wide open, and Dean peers at him through the semi-darkness. "Took you long enough," Dean says gruffly, trying to hide his enthusiasm at the sight of food and his brother.

"Hangry, much?" Sam asks as his brother eagerly snatches the long awaited dinner out of his hands.

"Dude, who came up with this word anyway? Could have been me for sure," Dean says, his voice softening. He opens up the lid to peer into the box, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Sam can't help that grin that split his face, though, noticing his brother's mood shift. Because _food_ , thank god. The room doesn't seem to be so bad, after all.

Sam fumbles with his wet shoes, tucking them next to Dean's boots in front of the heater, and peels off his jacket.

Meanwhile Dean is off with the food, the boxes cradled on his lap as if he's afraid they might try to run away. He pokes for one big piece of pepperoni, letting the oily chunk fall into his open mouth. He yanks off the comforter beneath his legs, patting the neat spot at the end of the bed in a silent peace offering. Dean opens the other box and thrusts it Sam's way.

Sam sighs, his body bone-weary, as he sinks down next to his brother. His fingers fishing for an overly thick slice, sitting in pools of grease from the cheese.

"The decor outside is nice, though," Dean says, taking another bite from the heavily topped slice, slouching back against the headboard. "They sure got their priorities straight," he states, his pale and tired face is barely visible in the dimmed room.

Sam lifts his eyes, looking through the smudged windows and then Sam notices them, too. The faint hint of golden and warm Christmas lights bleeding through the darkness, swaying and changing in the wind like fireflies dancing in the starry night. He takes in the beautiful sight as thick lazy flakes join in, drifting down from the sky.

"Company isn't too bad, either," Dean admits through a thick mouthful of pizza. Dean lifts his beer bottle, nudging it at Sam, who bumps the end of his bottle against Dean's.

Sam takes a grateful swing and smiles, because for the first time this day, he really can't argue with that.


	3. Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Wishes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: bit Lisa/Dean  
> Wordcount: about 2,5K  
> Warning: Alcohol abuse  
> Setting: Season 5  
> Disclaimer: Just burrowing these kick ass characters  
> Shoutout: A special thank you to Amorythewriter for being my lovely beta.

**Prompt: Wishes**

The sky is dim, a hazy-washed out grey, the silver clouds only barely visible at the edge of dawn.

Just watching the lazy, fat snowflakes falling down, ending in white-powdered rift, is hypnotizing. Calming, in a way. Even Dean kind of figured it must be nice being an ice crystal, blending in with the rest. Different on the outside, but inside just the same.

Dean chuckles, swirling the whiskey in the glass before he drains down the last remaining amber, pressing his lips into a thin line. 

He pours himself another generous serving, puts the bottle down carefully. There is a moment of hesitation, and then he is flipping his hand over, eying the gauze centered around his palm. His thumb moves over the covered wound experimentally, almost cradling it before he presses down on it, hard. 

Dean blinks, gasping slightly as a sprinkle of pain surges through him, the scar tissue throbbing painfully. He furrows his brow as he jabbs his finger deeper. And all of the sudden, his heart starts to lurch, his mind racing. He watches as a bright splotch of red emerges, a stark contrast to the vivid white.

For one tense, horrifying moment, he is afraid to look up, to check on reality like his brother used to do.

But then he does. 

Except, he is still staring at the winter landscape unfolding in front of him, his eyes lingering on the snow covered rooftops, on the white-powdered thicket of trees. Like a twisted fairy tale he was playing a part in now.

“ _Damnit_ ,” he mutters and buries his hands into his short hair, wants to fucking _scream_. He goes for the glass instead, chugs down half of it. Feeling the smoky liquor biting the back of his throat. 

His ears eventually catch up on the footsteps coming down the stairs. Dean, recognizing the pattern and weight carrying them, knows that Ben is going to stumble into his company any second now. _Shit._

Dean makes a frantic, convulsive movement to look for a hiding place, and ends up thrusting the glass behind his back. Some of its lingering contents slipping out onto the cream-colored couch, soaking the foam padding with a nasty, sticky stain.

He does a pretty piss poor job in hiding the half-drowned bottle, too, by squishing a poor excuse of a cushion over it. 

Dean whips his head around, bracing for the encounter. He jumps a little when the kid is already _there_ , standing right in front of him.

Awkwardly, Dean tries to cover the bottle with his body, hoping maybe Ben won't notice.

Dean lifts his chin, squinting to look at the intruder, who just happens to stare back.

After a moment the kid lets out a drowsy. “Hey.” 

Dean nods, clears his throat, not quite trusting his voice yet. “Hey you,” he offers lamely, the cheer in his voice way too high. He feels his cut pulsing behind the cool glass, willing his heartbeat to get a grip.

“Wattcha doing up so early?” Dean slurs, fucking slurs. Goddamnit, he should have eaten something before he opened the morning bar. But well, last time he checked it was seven-o-clock. And that’s definitely not the morning time for this little man.

Ben looks at him with bewildered eyes then, a small frown creasing his features, like Dean is missing something really important. If he wouldn’t be so plastered he would see the silent hint of judgment in the kid’s eyes.

The kid steps to the left, rattling off some bouncy-energy of his, which is strangely new. Now, with the morning light coming in just right and with the tousled, sleep-stricken mop of hair, he looks an awful lot like Sam. Dean looks away, because yeah, he can’t take it.

There is a heavy silence in the room, like a pressure in the air around him. Dean starts to shift his weight, the clock ticking on the sideboard. 

Finally, Ben says, “It’s Christmas day.” 

Dean licks his lips, his voice a little hoarse when he looks up again, “Right.”

He dumps the whole bottle of whisky down the sink after that.

* * *

He was doing better.

At least he tried to convince himself. 

It started when Lisa was decorating the house, filling pots and vases with bundles of evergreen twigs, setting candles here and there and he helped her bring down some dusted, old boxes with all kinds of different strings of lights and red and golden ornaments, christmas figures and other miscellaneous holiday items.

Dully, Dean’s gaze took in the yellow and orange flame coming to life as she lit the first of four huge, red candles one evening. 

Sweat beaded at the back of his neck and forehead as he was watching the blacking wick curling in on itself and the wax began to peel away slowly, shedding like a second layer of skin.

He could feel his breath stalling in his lungs, the blood rushing so loud in his ears it was almost deafening, consuming. The familiar voices of Lisa and Ben, long thinned out, miles away. 

Bile started to climb his throat as the familiar smell of sulfur and burning flesh was filling his nostrils, replacing the one of fresh pine and cinnamon. 

His heart was pounding with the agonizing weight of guilt, pressing down on him as he continued to stare while a pool of red emerged and a first dribble ran over the edge and down the smooth surface like a silent, dreadful tear of blood.

For a spit, terrifying second, Dean was sure he'd heard Sam’s sceam.

He scrambled to his feet, barely making it to the bathroom in time.

As he dreamt that night, he welcomed the flames devouring him, taunting his body, his skin and muscles, burning him piece by piece. But then hazel eyes stared back at him, captured in a prison of flames alongside him, a flicker of agony shimmering across them before hell took them, too.

Dean didn’t remember how long he stared at the ceiling, hand twisted in the beeding, the after effects causing his heart to slam at the base of his throat. Sheets tangled somewhere between his feet like binding chains, he was unable to free himself from.

Morning brought a new chapter to the weight of loss and longing. 

Another day without the familiar, soft leather beneath him, the absence of the gentle hum of the tires as they roll over gravel and less-than-smooth backroads, the sweet rumble of the engine rocking through his fingers, and the lack of the wide, open road ahead. His only real, solid anchor throughout his entire life, riding shotgun beside him, gone. 

Everything he fought so hard to keep, ripped away from him.

Dean wondered if there would ever be a time he could leave _this_ , his old life behind and simply move on.

* * *

Dean wishes he could go for a bottle of beer, slightly regretting his decision from earlier that day. But he can’t, because he is standing in the kitchen, preparing Christmas dinner with the two people who were now his only constant.

He is doing the easy work, like peeling a goddamn potato. It’s good though, to feel the knife in his hands, feeling the tip slicing through the sput. If he lets his mind wander hard enough, it might just feel like cutting the throat of a good-old vamp. Or a nasty ghoul. 

But that’s not who he is anymore. 

He’s taking a break. Next year and the year after. And the year after that. 

Until eventually, he dies of old age.

Because he made a promise.

It hadn’t been a fair promise, Dean knew. But he had to make up for it as best as he could.

So, the moment the bell rings, he fixes his wounded warrior mask back in place, takes a deep breath and dives into the life of somebody else.

There are mashed potatoes, a perfectly roasted golden turkey, gravy and all kinds of vegetables like green beans, carrots and turnip that would make Sam’s heart jump in awe.

It’s humble and cosy and Lisa was sitting across from him, flashing him a sweet, encouraging smile every now and again. It seemed he was doing good, nodding and chuckling at the right time when her dearest put him up in a conservation. Dean does a ridiculously lame joke himself, which sends their heads reeling backwards, teeth flashing white against the warm light illuminating the room.

It was the stuff great memories are made of, the kind that keep you company for a lifetime.

He lost himself in the effort of not thinking, in the effort just to _be._

Then again, it was never meant to be his and he feels oddly out of place.

The lovely old lady to his right scoops him another plate full of potatoes and a second piece of turkey. He says his thanks and starts to eat slowly, almost methodically.

It all tastes like ash.

When it gets too crowded, too noisy, Dean winces and excuses himself. He goes to the sink, serves himself a glass of cold tap water. And then Lisa is there, standing behind him, almost hovering.

“You good?” she asks, her voice suddenly low, only for him to hear. She looks at him, her soft eyes searching for his.

Dean savours the solid and warm touch to his arm as she reaches out to him. He pulls her close then, planting a soft kiss on the crown of her head before resting his chin on top of her silky hair, taking in the fresh scent of honey and almond. 

She squeezes his arm slightly, before she wraps her arms around his waist.

But it’s not enough. Never will it be enough.

So he lies. He had since become a master at that, too.

Eventually, he skips the water, grabs a beer instead. And another, letting the laughter and chatter wash over him like a wave he wasn’t ready to ride yet. The chit chat vanishes somewhere late that evening, but really, in between it all becomes just a blur.

At the end of the day he finds his made-shift bed on the couch already done, a pile of extra pillows sitting on the armrest.

Dean hastitates, before snatching the brand new bottle of high-quality Bourbon from under the Christmas tree, silently thanking Josh for his generosity. He makes a mental note to replace it, before he rips off the ribbon and janks it open. 

He takes a healthy mouthful straight from the bottle, craving the slide of alcohol over his tongue. Wanting it to numb him, to stop the soul-deep ache in his chest that no realistic amount of booze or pills would ever come close to reach.

He lets himself sink onto the couch with a heavy sigh, his body stiff, settling face-first on the cotton-lined bedding. Soft, and comfortable underneath him. The flat-paper smell of hotel sheets is long replaced with intense-smelling fruits and florals like “Sleepy Valley Dew” or ”Cashmere Dream Breeze”. It makes him nouseous in a way.

His groan is muffled by the pillow as he turns his head around, looking at the Christmas tree. Remembers how he went to pick it up with Lisa, who insisted for him to come along. It’s a big thing for the two of them as a family, a tradition actually. So Dean did. 

He guessed Lisa wanted to keep his mind off, to keep him in motion. Making him feel _useful_.

They spend a good thirty minutes looking for the most fitting tree on the farm. In the end he chose one with soft, pale green needles, a little portly, chest height. It fit in the trunk just fine and was the perfect size for the living room. But they all looked the same, anyway.

It’s a bliss when a large wood chip rammed itself up his palm as he put up the tree in the candler. He didn’t notice at first, though. It’s Lisa who recognized the glossy reddish-brown smudges on her golden ornaments he had put up with the kid later on. It must have triggered her overly motherly-senses, because he could sense her coming closer.

As he was reaching for the light strings, her hand unexpectedly shot out, latching onto his wrist and he almost pulled away. Away from the concerned, sympathetic eyes, watching him, crushing him. Away from the woman he’d so often seen in his dreams and a son he would have been proud to call his own. Away from a daily routine so normal it made his heart ache, knowing he would never fit in that seemingly perfect white-picked-fence life he actually never thought of living by himself.

But he hesitated too long, and the next moment he found Lisa cradling his hand in hers, firm and gentle. His brow furrowing, Dean tracked her gaze, landing on his left hand. 

_Huh_ , he thought, almost absent, as he was staring at the red and very angry wound centered in the middle of his palm. A splinter as big as his pinky made its way through his skin, his entire fist and the spaces between his fingers smeared with blood. 

“You hurt yourself,” she started unnecessarily, her voice soft, a strange emotion trembling just beneath the surface, one he wasn’t easily able to place.

Dean swallowed, blinking. There was even a mess on the floor, he noticed.

“Guess so,” he said in mild irritation, not sure what else to say. Not sure why she truly cared. 

He sure as hell wasn’t worth it.

He was casting shadows over them, only bringing a heavy load of misery and despair to them he didn’t even know how to unload, let alone pack up again once it was laid out in the open.

So, he might just get what he deserved.

But soon he found himself sitting at the kitchen table, his arm stretched out on the counter. He sneaked a look at her face, but she was staring at his torn skin in concentration, her brows pulled closer together in a frown. Lips pressed closed as he silently began unrolling the gauze, wrapping it carefully around his hand.

Dean sighs at the memory, rubbing at his aching forehead with the heel of his damaged hand, feeling the tissue prickle underneath. 

His scars are healing, but his mind is not.

Dean stares ahead, absently curling his fingers against his palms, the shiny lights dazzling his eyes. They trace the tree until they rest on that stupid angle figure, made of wodden sticks and hot glue, hanging in the top corner. He has to contain himself for not getting up and yanking it off. _Angels are watching over you my ass,_ he thinks. 

It’s terrible, but Lisa is oddly attached to it. Ben gave it to her when he was little and it is a solid part of the tree decoration, a sort of tradition ever since. Dean on the other hand, hasn’t heard a single flapping of wings for over half a year now. 

“Fuck you, Cas,” he utters into the silent room, startled at his own harshness. 

But it suits him just right. That dick just vanished along when his life went down the drain. Angels couldn’t save his brother, so there is no need to bother knocking now, anyway.

He takes another sip and can feel the liquor burning his throat, warming his stomach. Dean tries to sink into the pleasant blur, feels the surge of emotion climbing up to his eyes.

Dean breathes out deeply, looking at the presents neatly piled under the tree.

He didn’t ask for anything, didn’t really expect to get something. Yet there he was, staring at the tool box they gave him for his new job he eventually has to take on.

He buries himself deeper into the cushion, pressing the hand that was still clutching the bottle to his side, trying to block out the hollowness inside of him.

Thinking, his only wish is for Sammy to be here.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> More prompts to come. :)


End file.
